Zen Odyssey: The Story of Sokei-an, Ruth Fuller Sasaki, and the Birth of Zen in

COMING HOME TO A STRANGE HOUSE

Nanzen-ji temple, Kyoto, Japan, April–August 1932

No one like her had ever been inside the zendo before, this shadowy world of silence and precision. The monks were walking in before her, slowly but deliberately, with not a motion wasted, taking their positions for the evening meditation. Ruth carefully followed Eizan, the senior monk assigned to assist her, observing each detail of his entry into the hall, bowing where he bowed, pausing where he paused, finding the place set for her on a zafu in the back of the hall as silently as possible. It was very important to observe the protocol exactly — especially to not disrupt the practice of the others.

She understood that each meditator, as still as a statue, was focused exclusively on his own personal inner practice, as she herself had been focused, separately, over the past month of intensive training since arriving in Japan. One morning she had experienced an unusual moment in her meditation, and not long after the monks had invited her to join them in the zendo — for a single night. And now, for the first time ever, someone like her — no, not someone like her, only she herself, Ruth Fuller Everett — was entering the inner world reserved for the monks.

A single dim electric light cast shadows of the monks against the shoji screen that divided the hall. The thin glow and the shadows on the screen awakened something in her — something alien, unnamable, a whispered hint of some ancient mystery, but also somehow deeply familiar. The whole thing was utterly strange. And yet she felt she had come home.

This arrival, this entry into the hidden world of Zen, was entirely unexpected. But it was why Ruth had come to Japan. It had been a difficult process, but it was the sort of challenge she was built for. Really, all it took was undying determination. And, as her mother had never tired of reminding her, she had plenty of that. She could sit still for hours, days if necessary, if that was the path to — what? Enlightenment? Satori, kensho — many of the texts Ruth had immersed herself in treated that experience as central. An interesting psychological experience indeed.

Nanshinken Roshi sometimes dropped hints. If he would talk about it at all — which he mostly wouldn’t — he might call it a breakthrough, a glimpse of seeing into things as they are. But it was barely an insinuation, made in the midst of drinking tea or preparing winter squash. She found it difficult to reconcile this seemingly offhand attitude with the military-like discipline that made his temple sparkle. His manner was a combination of hard and soft that was unlike anything in her experience. Either way, he seemed allergic to explanations: Work hard. Work harder. Practice with strong effort and perhaps something will happen.

Well, something did happen — after only a month in Japan. She had been doing her zazen in the little house across from the temple — not in the absurd, bright green upholstered Morris chair her hosts had graciously provided, which would kick out into a full recliner with horrifying speed if you happened to hit the pearl buttons a certain way, but properly, on a zafu and zabuton set on the floor. She sat alone, apart from the monks in their zendo, which was still forbidden to her. When the glimpse of a deeper reality arrived — not unbidden, but after giving up on layers of preconceptions, waiting, giving up on waiting, returning to the koan, becoming exasperated with the koan — she felt it merited communicating.

She did her best to explain this interesting experience to her interpreter, who wrote it down in Japanese. The next morning Ruth had the note taken to Nanshinken.

She hadn’t been back in the little house for long when Roshi clattered at the back door and came running in, wearing his white under-kimono, excitedly waving the note. This is what I’ve been waiting for, this is what I’ve been waiting for! he said in Japanese that Ruth, even at that rudimentary stage in her learning, understood directly.

Later that day the interpreter came to explain the situation. Roshi asked the monks to let you sit in the zendo. They will not allow it — they are absolutely opposed. It is against the regulations of Nanzen-ji for a woman to sit, and they will not allow it.

It was late April. On the first of May, the summer osesshin, the intensive practice period, was about to begin. Preparations were in full swing, with monks getting the temple ready for hundreds of visitors in addition to the forty-seven monks who would squeeze into the sodo. Ruth was satisfied expecting to continue her own practice outside, in the little house Nanshinken had built as his personal temple. She had made her breakthrough; it didn’t matter so much which building she sat in. Anyway, there was no room in the sodo, which had been built to seat thirty-six. Those who would not fit in the sodo would be placed in the hondo, the main temple building. Except for Ruth, who was not invited inside.

The first two days of the osesshin were devoted to services and to feeding all of the temple supporters, some two thousand people. The place was crowded with lay visitors, students, and local dignitaries bringing offerings and partaking of ceremonial meals. In the midst of all this, one of the senior monks, who spoke some English, crossed the road to visit Ruth. The monks are asking you to sit one night with them. Please come at seven o’clock and sit until half past nine. So. What changed? Did Nanshinken persuade them to let her in?

It was still rather cold for the first of May, and she had no special clothes — the fashion of the day favored very tight skirts, which would not be acceptable. Her assistant Kato-san figured out something for her to wear: Ruth had a dark Chinese silk robe that they agreed would be suitable, with a black velvet coat to keep her warm.

Convincing Warren this trip to Japan was necessary had been an ordeal, but not really more so than the day-to-day negotiations of their contentious household. A more traditional, submissive wife would not even have considered the undertaking in the first place — or at least would have approached her spouse more gingerly, to ask permission. But most of the women in Ruth’s circles pursued studies and activities to make themselves interesting, sometimes to promote important social causes. They had gotten the vote, after all — and not by asking permission of their husbands.

But however serious these personal pursuits, Ruth felt that ultimately they were not as important as her project — her mission — clearly was. It was not simply for her own sake that she was compelled to move forward. She considered herself a scientist, a researcher who might discover a cure for the malaise she witnessed in the world all around her — or perhaps not discover something new so much as receive, translate, convey an ancient, well-known solution back to her own land, as Bodhidharma (known as Daruma to the Japanese) had carried the Buddha’s awakening from India to China fifteen centuries ago. She saw a way to replenish a grave deficit in her own culture. Ruth did not ask permission; it was her right. In fact, if she were qualified, which she presumed she was, it was her responsibility.

They had taken a three-month, first-class trip through Japan, Korea, and China — purely for pleasure — two years earlier, in 1930. Much of the world was reeling from the hard times everywhere, but the Everett fortunes were barely touched.

The trip had been a family sightseeing tour with twelve-year-old Eleanor and her governess. Warren had been taken with the geishas, who bowed and kneeled before him with sake and shamisen music, and with the cormorant fishing, still being practiced though already with a hint of anachronism. They had all been enraptured by the beautiful music of pigeons in Peking flying in flocks of fifty or more with whistles tied to their tails, and bemused by the noisome honey carts with their casks of human manure slowing progress on the roads. Ruth had managed in varying ways to satisfy her deep and ever-growing interest in Buddhism, which Warren tolerated — how could he do otherwise? — or rather indulged, as he would put it. He did not, could not, really recognize the depth of her seriousness. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, Nanshinken was the one who could see that right away.

Was it a good marriage? Warren was a good man. Marrying him had maintained her position in that class of people for whom the Depression was something one merely read about in the morning paper. He was twenty years her senior, and he exercised his will with the authority of someone accustomed to being in charge. He was a bully as a lawyer, and at home. But she had nerves of steel and could withstand his outbursts.

In 1923, Warren had sent them to Nyack, New York, for their safety; he was prosecuting Al Capone’s henchmen and worried about kidnappings. It was in Nyack where she first became acquainted with yoga and Indian philosophy, at Pierre Bernard’s retreat. Warren’s worldly precautions were not without positive consequences.

He was getting more difficult, though. Any little thing might set him off. Politics. A tennis partner stood him up. A package did not arrive on time. Eleanor, still a child in so many ways at thirteen, tearful and terrified by his shouts as he instructed her on driving the Packard convertible. One of his clerks misfiled a brief — it could be recovered, with some effort, but it cost the clerk his job, poor fellow. And Ruth had to hear about it for days afterward.

Even if Warren’s anger was not always justified, there was a pattern. Of course it was all to do with being crippled from polio. For the crime of being imperfect he had been bullied relentlessly as a boy. So he made sure he could beat anyone. It was usually some violation of his high standards that set him off — some perceived violation, at least. That was something she and Warren did have in common. Not the outbursts, but the standards. She was a stickler for details. If something was out of place, it had to be made right, even if she would not dream of berating and cursing the way Warren did so readily.

Nanshinken was exemplary in that regard. Everything here at his temple was just so, and accomplished through respect and devotion, because of his commanding yet somehow gentle presence. Of course the monks applied themselves with unfailing self-discipline. And sometimes he did shout at them.

Perhaps that sense of order and discipline was one of the reasons she felt at home in this zendo — even at ease, though of course ease was not the right word. Nothing about it was at all easy. And yet . . . So often people think of order as being restrictive, tying up their hands — as if they knew some better way to do things. But she could see through that. It was just laziness. Really, when everything was taken care of correctly, that’s what made the real work possible. And what was that work, precisely? This. Sitting here, in this precisely composed place. Striving to penetrate the koan.

Nanshinken was different; he really was full of ease, taking visible, noticeable delight in the midst of the military rigor. And he was not in the least concerned that his robes were five sizes too large — practically a tent over him, a man of small physique. That disregard for his vestments was one of the things that endeared him to Ruth. And actually, even if the robes were a misfit for his body physically, they were a true fit for his being. He had the nyoi, the ceremonial baton, that Hakuin himself had used, passed down through eight generations of Dharma transmission to Nanshinken Roshi, the living embodiment of the Buddha’s enlightenment in the present. Could the robes possibly be that old as well? They certainly had belonged to Dokutan Sosan Roshi, Nanshinken’s teacher, who inherited them from his teacher Tankai Gensho Roshi. Three generations, maybe more, of sweating Zen masters. Good enough for them, good enough for him. Nothing to waste a moment of precious attention on.

The first trip to Japan had been exciting and enjoyable, and educational in its own way. She had planned it, made all the arrangements, written to family friends and especially Warren’s business contacts — with associates all over the world, meeting with the likes of Chiang Kai-shek’s ministers, one might imagine he worked for the Department of State. Of course their American friends had warned them of all manner of hazards and hostilities, but the whole thing had come off smooth as clockwork, delightful and diverting as much as anything.

It had been her idea. They had been to Europe several times; she had spent the previous ten years or more — really since Eleanor came, and then certainly after the miscarriage — deeply immersed in her studies of Buddhism and Indian philosophy, going so far as to learn Sanskrit and Pali to read sutras in the original. Her studies always had to be late at night, since Warren dominated the dinner table with his own discourses and insisted on reserving the evening for family time or entertaining guests. The tour, of course, had to be a family trip, which meant in a way it was more Warren’s trip. Not that he begrudged the visits to temples and receptions with Zen priests — not in the least. Rather, he put them in the same category as the special invitations they received to see the Imperial Palace in Kyoto and the Forbidden City — though perhaps not quite as special as those — a rare privilege but well deserved by someone of his stature. However, he found the exoticism of a three-hour meal of raw fish served by geishas or a day spent watching the cormorant fishing more noteworthy than conversations about meditation.

In fact, the introduction that had been most crucial for Ruth barely registered with Warren. Toward the end of their stay, their Chicago friend William McGinnis, who had lived in Kyoto for many years — and who was interested in Buddhism, and had even published a book called Introduction to Mahayana Buddhism — brought her to meet Dr. Daisetz Teitaro Suzuki and his wife, Beatrice Lane Suzuki. Ruth already knew this D. T. Suzuki by reputation, having found some of his early writings on Zen in English, and was intrigued. As her study of Buddhism had deepened over the years, through the texts of both Theravada and Mahayana persuasions, she felt a growing sense of disappointment that the original insight of the Buddha had become cluttered, encumbered with precepts and details that had little to do with its essence; it was not until she came to Zen that she found the simple, eloquent truth reestablished.

All her life Ruth had been determined to go deeper into things, under the veils of this commonplace life that occupied most everyone — that occupied her most of the time. But she had always seen beyond, sensed and known there was something beneath the surface. In her twenties when she first encountered writings from the East, she felt an immediate recognition, a flash of discovery. The Buddha’s awakening was not merely a story: It was approachable, available. It was practical. And Ruth was a highly practical person.

At forty years old, in many ways Ruth was already an expert on the subject of Buddhism. But as much as she studied and understood, her knowledge was still from the outside; without practical training from within the living source, it would remain so. This is what tugged at her. With Dr. Suzuki that afternoon, she felt she was finally meeting someone who could receive her full intention, and it came naturally to say to him, I consider that the core of Buddhism is meditation. The Zen school calls itself the meditation school. If you would be so kind as to instruct me in this method of meditation that the Zen school teaches, I am convinced that with faithful practice, it will eventually lead me to the fulfillment of the Buddha’s Buddhism for myself.

Over the next few days, Dr. Suzuki showed Ruth the basics of sitting practice and how to handle her mind in meditation. He gave her a copy of his book Essays on Zen Buddhism: First Series. All this is very well, he said, but if you really want to learn Zen meditation, you should come back to Japan for a more extended stay. You would find more benefit in three or four months of practice here than in years of working on your own.

Ruth, on her second trip to Japan, 1930.

Courtesy of the estate of Ruth Fuller Sasaki.

The Suzukis took Ruth to Empuku-ji temple in Yawata, just outside of Kyoto, where they had helped Kozuki Tesshu Roshi establish a small dormitory and meditation cave for foreigners to practice zazen. She could envision herself coming back to this place, meditating in this cave. But that was not to be: soon after the visit, Kozuki Roshi was killed in an automobile accident. His successor was not interested in training foreigners.

A year and a half later, after Ruth had spent sixteen days alone on the Asama Maru crossing the Pacific from Seattle, Mr. Ikeda was there to meet her at the dock in Yokohama. A business associate of Warren’s, he had been their guide in Japan when they traveled as a family. She was relieved to see him. Not that she had really doubted he would come, but you can never be entirely certain. They exchanged their greetings, friendly and cordial, not particularly formal — after all, they had previously traveled in each other’s company for several weeks.

After seeing to the entry paperwork and her valises and steamer trunks, Ikeda brought her to a waiting area. There was Dr. Suzuki. He greeted her a bit stiffly and immediately apologized: Please forgive me. I’m very sorry, but Daitoku-ji temple will not have you.

During Ruth’s months away, as she corresponded with Dr. Suzuki, he had arranged for her to stay at Koto-in, a subtemple of Daitoku-ji, where Ueda Gizan Roshi had some rooms set aside. It had sounded definite. But now that was off, and with no explanation, just this slightly awkward apology from Dr. Suzuki. What could she do? She had come all this way. Of course nothing was certain. But still. She had to have a real Zen master. As much as she respected Dr. Suzuki, it would not be enough simply to stay with him and his American wife. Please do not worry, Dr. Suzuki said. I will see if Nanshinken Roshi will take you.

Mrs. Suzuki had already arranged for Kato-san to keep house for Ruth, and for a young Japanese man, an English student of hers named Oguri-san, to act as interpreter and secretary.

After some searching they were able to find a beautiful house on the Kamo River in Kyoto, and Ruth moved in there.

On a cold but bright afternoon at the beginning of April, an Amer­­­i­can woman, accompanied by a Japanese gentleman wearing traditional ceremonial dress, paused as they crossed the bridge over Lake Biwa Canal to gaze at the cherry trees along the bank, which were beginning to scatter their pale pink petals onto the breeze-ruffled waters. After an unspoken moment they turned and headed up the long avenue lined with sugi, the graceful and stately Japanese cedar trees that delineate the path to the outer gate of Nanzen-ji temple.

As they entered the grounds, two monks, still wearing their heavy winter robes, stopped as they passed the visitors and bowed deep and low. Clearly the gentleman, at least, was familiar to them. The visitors bowed in return, then paused for a moment at a stone bridge that arched over a lotus pool where the plants were still brown and withered from winter frosts. What if the answer is no?

They passed through a low gateway in the first wall, then turned to the left to take the road to the main temple.

Where the sunlight filtered between the giant sugi, tiny new maple leaves made dancing shadows on the wide dirt path. The man and woman climbed the broad steps of the great gray Mountain Gate and passed under its wide, curving roofs. Before them the open doors of the large red-lacquered building revealed an inner darkness that even at a distance was relieved by the golden gleam of huge figures on the high altar; but rather than enter, they again turned to the left.

Long, sloping roofs of a group of buildings were visible over the top of a white wall that stretched back into pine woods to the north and up a slope to the east. In the middle of the wall the main doors of a tile-roofed gate were wide open, as if in expectation of their coming. The gravel paths beyond the gate showed marks of being freshly swept with a twig brush; stone blocks at the entryway of the main building within the enclosure were not yet quite dry from a recent washing.

The paper shoji doors of the building were pushed aside, but the place appeared deserted. On the entrance stone the gentleman stepped out of his immaculate geta sandals with their white leather straps and, standing on the shining boards of the veranda, he clapped his hands and called out sharply, Tadaima!

Immediately the sound of bare feet running accompanied the sight of two young monks, heads newly shaven, wearing their best blue robes, who kneeled in welcome on the pale tatami of the inner room. The lady, struggling to untie the knots of her shoelaces, could not return their salutations with anything approximating grace. The monks waited with a calm, natural dignity, not showing the least annoyance at her predicament, until the cumbersome Western shoes had been arranged in order by the side of the white-strapped getas.

Then they made a hand gesture that, if the lady had been at home, would have meant Go away! but in Japan was a cordial invitation to follow. They led the way down tatami-covered corridors, along verandas bordering peaceful old gardens, and then into a medium-size room, the reception room, which had been prepared for their coming.

Here again the shoji had been thrust wide open to the sunshine and the gardens. Two cushions were arranged in the seats of honor near the tokonoma, which displayed a black-and-white painting of Kannon, the Buddhist goddess of mercy, and a simple arrangement of pine branches. In one corner of the room was a painted screen with a pattern obliterated by time, except for some faint golden glimmers. Another cushion was placed opposite the first two, with a large, thin book covered with purple and silver brocade alongside it.

After a few moments composing herself, the woman stole a glance around the room. She saw in the opposite corner an item of furniture that seemed absurdly out of place: a Morris chair, upholstered in bright green velour, its red mahogany arms dotted with pearl buttons. What was this beautiful monstrosity doing in a Japanese Zen Buddhist temple?

Again they heard the soft, quick pattering of feet in the corridor. In the open doorway stood a short, thin, elderly man; his head and face were closely shaven. He was wearing a long, coarse, dun-colored robe that seemed to have been made for someone several sizes larger than he was and appeared at least as old as the wizened man inside it. Around his neck a sort of bib of old brocaded stuff hung almost to his waist. On his feet were white wool tabi socks. He bowed, but not so low as the lady and gentleman, who hid their faces completely as they bowed their heads to the floor three times in strict ceremonial fashion. With a short, quick gesture the priest motioned them to take their places on the cushions facing him.

Once all were seated, he and the gentleman exchanged greetings in curt, terse-phrased Japanese.

The two young monks reappeared, with red lacquer cups of tea poised high on red lacquer stands and plates of thin, dry rice cakes. The guests sipped the tea and set their cups down. With a penetrating gaze, the old priest scrutinized the lady’s face. He turned to speak to the scholar, and the lady in turn scrutinized the face of the priest: a rugged face, weathered by seventy years, but at the same time young and bright. The lips were thin and straight; the chin firm, slightly protruding. On each side of the mouth were deep lines running down from the nostrils — lines she would come to recognize as belonging to the face of practically every longtime practitioner of Zen — but it was the eyes of the priest that intrigued her most. They had such life showing in them, such vitality as the lady had never seen before, and which she would see only again in another man who had also accomplished what this priest had accomplished. A kind face, but a face of energy and of will.

After some exchange of words the scholar turned to the lady and, in her own language, told her that the roshi had agreed to accept her as a pupil.

Then Kono Mukai, Nanshinken Roshi, master of this grand and ancient temple complex and of the entire Nanzen-ji branch of Rinzai temples, addressed Ruth directly. With Dr. Suzuki as interpreter, he said, "Of course you can’t sit in the zendo. And you can’t do much in your own house, where you have servants and other distractions. I have a personal temple here, across the road, which I built some years ago and where I will live when I retire. Nobody lives in it — you’re welcome to have it. I would like you to come to the house every day and do nothing but zazen all day long. If you come at nine in the morning I will give you the key. You can bring a bento for lunch. You are to sit zazen there all day long, and at five or six o’clock you can bring the key to me and go home. Please do not bring any books with you."

That’s all she was to do. Nanshinken didn’t talk about her coming to him for sanzen, the face-to-face, being-to-being meeting between master and student that is central to Rinzai Zen. He said, Now I will give you a koan. He brought out his Mumonkan (The Gateless Gate) and read the first koan, in Japanese. Dr. Suzuki translated: "A monk asked Joshu, ‘Does a dog have buddha nature?’ Joshu replied, ‘Mu!’"

Ruth asked, Why do you give me a koan? You don’t know whether I’m ready.

Nanshinken replied, I think you’re ready. Anyway, you begin with this. He showed her how he sat and how he breathed, and how to handle the koan.

Six days a week she did as he said. At nine in the morning she went to his inryo to get the key for the little house. He usually insisted on having her join him for tea. Then she would take the key and go across the road. And she would sit. She had a couple of zabutons — he said she must sit seiza, ladies’ fashion, kneeling. Her assistant Kato-san, whose husband had been a priest at Nanzen-ji before he died, suggested she sit with a couple of little cushions under her. That was the way she practiced.

She was to do nothing except sit and breathe, and when her legs got tired, she could walk up and down in the garden; that was all. Once in a while Roshi would send a monk over with some food or to clean the yard. At those times the monk would stop and talk with Ruth. But otherwise, for six days a week that first month, she did nothing except sit and breathe.

At her house on the Kamo, Ruth followed practically the same regime. She got up at five every morning. From five until seven she did zazen. Then she got dressed, had breakfast, and at half past eight left for Nanzen-ji, usually taking a taxi in the morning for the three or four miles from the house to the temple. She was there all day — she would have tea and a bento lunch of sandwiches, soup, or something she could fix on a hibachi herself. At night she would walk home, for the exercise. Then after taking her bath she would go sit again until midnight. She allowed herself five hours of sleep a night.

After a month of this routine, wrestling with her koan, something broke open in her mind, and the monks invited her inside their temple.

That first night in the zendo — the one night she was allowed to be there — she sat with fortitude and vigor, not expecting anything. In awe at simply being present in this mysterious, foreign place, she found the hours passed easily.

At the end of the evening Eizan came up to her as she got off the tan, the sitting platform, and said, You sat very well tonight. He repeated, You sat very well — will you come tomorrow night? Of course she was delighted.

The second night Ruth went again at seven o’clock. Soon after she situated herself on the zafu, the old roshi came in and stood in the doorway. He quickly scanned the room, and with dark eyes blazing he began shouting, sharply, louder than she could have imagined. The force of his angry voice, barking and bellowing — this small-bodied giant — was enough to make Ruth tremble.

At the time she didn’t know what he said. She found out later: he said everybody’s morning sanzen had been terrible, and therefore there